"Take this also," Darien said, revealing two pale bricks, faint of scent. He set them before Thorold and Celeste.
"My lord, what be these?" asked Thorold.
"Soap," Darien replied. "For cleansing flesh, to strip away filth and slay foul humours. Let them use it in turn."
Celeste's eyes lit with wonder at the strange bars. Darien gave brief counsel on their use, and Thorold passed them among the slaves, who dared not refuse.
"It is near noon," Darien murmured.
Celeste, recalling the morning's bread and cured ham, felt hunger stir within her—yet shame as well, for food was too precious to take without offering something back.
"My lord," she ventured, "our castle holds the finest cook in Brindlemark. Perhaps you would taste his craft?"
Darien's brow rose. Since his coming to this world, he had eaten little save coarse fare. Common bread was near stone, but surely the tables of nobles held better. He nodded his assent.
Leaving rye bread for the slaves, he followed Celeste to the castle.
...
'This his second time within its walls. The first had been rushed; now he looked with clearer eyes. From without, the fortress stood stout and venerable, heavy with years. Yet within, he was left somewhat wanting.
Still, the castle sprawled wide, near a hectare in size—a vastness in its own right.
Darien mused, half in jest: Were I home again, I might write, "What is't like to dwell in a castle at 18?" And answer bold: "This morn I woke in a fortress of stone, a hectare mine own."
...
"My lord, this way." Celeste extended her hand in gentle summons.
"Oh, right—you need not call me 'my lord.' Just Darien will do."
"Yes, my lord Darien."
His words fell wasted.
In the dining chamber, Darien found the room modest, the table small, suited for private meals. Servants brought scented water for their hands, then set linen and cutlery with solemn care. Celeste dismissed them with a word, drew out a chair for Darien, and sat opposite.
Thereafter courses came: white loaves, hard biscuits, black pudding, venison, pie of offal, and chicken with grapes and herbs. A clay pot gurgled on the board, steaming green beans.
Two maids poured wine into vessels bright and clear.
Darien marveled. "Glass?"
"Nay—crystal," Celeste whispered. "Passed down from my grandsire. Each worth thirty gold."
Darien near gaped at the sum. What fortune might such relics fetch in my world?
The cup was fine to look upon, yet the wine reeked of herbs. Darien drank, then grimaced. Sour it was, near rotten, the herb hiding its shame.
Celeste, perceiving his displeasure, set her cup aside as though by chance. "Here, my lord Darien—bread of purest flour, venison newly slain, pudding wrought of blood and oats, pie of entrails, capon arrayed with grapes and herbs, beans well-stewed…"
Better she had held her peace, thought Darien. Without her naming, he might have swallowed—but with each dish recited, his appetite withered.
To him, such dainties bore but one title: dark fare.
---
🔍 Did you know?
- Medieval soap was often made from animal fat and ashes, and it was a rare luxury in many towns—most people bathed infrequently.
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